Uncle Eddie versus the female species

(The continuing adventures of my family with regards to women and violence.)

UNCLE EDDIE VERSUS THE FEMALE SPECIES

With women my uncle had never much fortune,
not in the sense they would nag or importune,
but they brought moments of “hmmm” by the batch
down on his head which he’d then have to scratch.

In bed with his wife, just before he’d erupted,
one morning, his mother (God bless) interrupted
by dusting the mantelpiece and saying, “Eddie,
stop mucking about, son. Your breakfast is ready.”

Estrangement was maybe a matter of course.
She asked him, “What’s wrong? Why d’you want a divorce?”
He replied, “Well, you’re cheating on me and you’re living
with somebody else. Am I too unforgiving?”

It wasn’t too long though, be fair to him, was it,
before he’d resurfaced from the water-closet
declaring engagement complete with a party.
I remember it well, and him mooning my auntie.

A week later on he came home to discover
a note on the fridge with the words of his lover:
“Dear Eddie, I’m having a fortnight in Turkey,
kiss kiss.” This was pushing the boundaries of ‘quirky’.

He read, “See you later, babe. P.S. The spoons
are arriving some time on Monday afternoon,”
then soliloquised, “Turkey? I’m lost! I’m bereft!”
Befuddled, he made his excuses and left.

Back to the drawing board, back to the toilet
he went and I’m sure without doubt he enjoyed it,
but rather than moping around the place bitterly,
soon he ensnared a signora from Italy

with a full figure and fingers in gems.
I don’t know why she was northeast of the Thames,
but once she’d been wed to a charted and spiffing
American soul singer called Bobby Tiffin,

whose rage at my uncle for screwing his lady
took shape as a gang looking gold-toothed and shady
who turned up one morning to make their threats echo
around the stout fellows of Hackney Bus Depot.

These heavies arrived in a huge limousine
to spoil the Number Eight’s daily routine,
proud vessel my uncle, with great leverage,
once turned-in-the-road in, on Waterloo Bridge

(He’d got lost on a detour which set him aquiver
but shouldn’t have taken him south of the river).
These gangsters arrived though, and who would shoot faster,
them or the men of the noble Routemaster?

Eddie’s right hand had blood strewn upon it
from punching the limousine right in the bonnet.
Confetti was made of its windscreens and wipers.
What then became of its heartbroken drivers?

A dozen gold teeth ended up in the gutter
and sunglasses shoved where no threats could be uttered
and shimmying swaggers reduced to a limp,
a triumph of bus-driver over pimp.

The last time I popped round for rarebit and beans
my Nan came in clutching a pair of his jeans,
saying, “Look at these cum-stains everywhere. See?”
He said, “Christ, they’re not cum-stains, Muvver. It’s tea.”

But Nan went on, “Looks like you’ve had a wet dream,”
as I sat with a napkin and doughnut with cream.
My uncle just smiled and sat scratching his cleft.
Befuddled, I made my excuses and left.